


rush

by lordberenger



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon, horse riding! fun times, laurent and damen are mentioned 3 times because idk how to make my ships interact, not for everyone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-13 01:00:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15352728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordberenger/pseuds/lordberenger
Summary: Berenger told Ancel it's always the rider's fault; Ancel begs to differ.





	rush

Even northern Akielos is too hot by ten degrees in the fall.

Ancel isn’t someone who blooms in the cold; like a flower, he needs warmth and sun. Besides, nothing is attractive about hiding under a pile of furs, as fine and expensive as they might be, or a naked body covered in goosebumps.

Still, his pale milky skin is sensitive to the sun, and Akielos is scorching like a stone taken straight out of the fire.

“My hair is flat,” he complains to Berenger one day. “Everyone’s hair is flat. Even the King’s hair is flat.”

Berenger glances at the blonde head of King Laurent, shining in the sun like a polished coin. “I don’t think that’s true,” he says.

It’s not, but Ancel is in a mood.

“Oh, so his hair is fine, but mine doesn’t deserve a comment?”

“Ancel.”

“ _Your_ hair looks good.”

“Thank you,” Berenger says with a smile. He reaches with one hand, wrapping his fingers in a stray strand of Ancel’s braid.

His touch is soft, as is his smile. Ancel brings him close for a kiss, only to be rudely interrupted by Ruby, who snorts behind him and shoves him with her shoulder.

Ancel jumps, tearing away from Berenger. He’s still not totally used to the mass of horses, their unpredictability and their quick sidesteps.

He knows how to feign assurance where he feels hesitant, though, and he only lets Berenger’s hand calm him.

“Do you want to stay back today?” asks Berenger.

Ancel glances around at the camp, the busy dance of servants folding back tents and seats. A handful of noblemen have followed the kings and some of the kyroi in a hunt, through the dry mountains of northern Akielos. Berenger attends, as a member of the Council and a skilled horse rider, but Ancel would have gladly exchanged his place for one of the people staying back with the rest of the court if the unchallenged proximity and attention to his king hadn’t drawn him in.

Mainly, though, a week in the palace without Berenger seemed particularly boring.

The hunt is scheduled to last three days at least. “As they did in the old days,” said Lord Makedon, the host.

Ancel is pretty sure he also said that the old days included hunting actual lions, but he’ll settle for the majestic silhouette of the animal that has slowly taken permanent residence next to the Veretian starburst.

Noise from the other side of the camp rouses Ancel from Berenger’s arms. The King and his retinue of nobles are all mounting; the second day of the hunt is beginning.

“We’re not even hunting anything,” he tells Berenger has he accepts his boost.

Ancel is taller than him by at least two inches, and he doesn’t really need a boost anyway, but if he’s going to spend the whole day on horseback, he might as well appreciate a few seconds of his lover’s hands on his ass.

“We just caught a deer yesterday,” Berenger says.

They ate it, too; the servants are hurrying to prepare the rest of it for long-term conservation.

“That didn’t deserve an eight-hour ride.”

“Hunting is a regal sport. This is an unprecedented event; I don’t blame King Laurent for being interested.”

“A regal sport that’s slowly rubbing the skin off my ass,” Ancel says as he brings Ruby close.

Berenger lowers his voice, the presence of outsiders making him almost shy as usual. “You didn’t look too hurt yesterday.”

“No, but I might need some salve put on it tonight,” Ancel says. He bats his eyelashes. Berenger smiles, and the signal to ride is given at the head of the file, the Kings’ horses flying ahead.

Ancel is too focused on staying on his saddle to speak for the next few hours. The ground is tricky, uneven; sometimes they have to slow down to a walk, passing through huge white rocks like a string of pearls weaving this way and there on a silk cushion.

It isn’t, objectively, the first place Ancel would have brought a horse, much less a dozen plus their riders. Luckily he isn’t given a spear; the idea that he would even be at the head of the group, close enough to the animal to aim or hit, is laughable. On this particular outing, he’s fine with being part of the décor.

Berenger tries to stay back and ride with him, but after a few hours Ancel waves him ahead, if only so his horse can finally extend his gait freely.

When a break is signaled around midday, Ancel breathes for the first time. He’s definitely sore and stiff by the time he makes his way to Berenger, having given his reins to one of the servants who follow them closely.

“How anyone could enjoy this is beyond me,” he tells Berenger as they settle down for a quick collation. “What do Akielons have against flat ground?”

“The views are unparalleled,” Berenger says. He carefully unravels a small apricot tarte and gives it to Ancel.

“The rocks under Ruby’s hooves are very white,” Ancel concedes wryly. “This is about as much as I can see.”

“Put more faith in your horse. She knows what she’s doing.”

Ancel bites into the tarte. The taste is just sweet enough to balance the tartness. Ancel closes his eyes, unable to repress a little sound of pleasure. It’s not worth the two days of riding they’ve done so far, but it’s a comfort he’s missed in the last few hours.

Berenger opens his mouth readily when Ancel breaks a piece of his dessert, his lips closing around Ancel’s fingers almost too innocently. It’s all Ancel can do not to slide into his lap immediately and push him down, but they’re in public and Berenger has reservations about that. It’s ridiculous: the Kings’ hands are so obviously roaming a bit farther off, for all they seem to think they’re hidden by the meager vegetation, and Ancel can see that Akielos nobleman sitting so close to one of the King’s guards that they’re practically on top of each other.

Ancel slumps a little and puts his head on Berenger’s shoulders, noting the feeling of well-worn leather against his cheek and the prickly feeling in his neck where Berenger keeps his hair cut so short. Berenger slips an arm around his waist, pushing him flush against him.

Ancel hides a grin. It’s progress.

They wait off the worst of the early afternoon heat by hiding under a small gathering of trees, barely a grove. A stream slithers around between the sun-warm stones, enough for horses to drink and humans to fill up their flasks.

Ancel spends that time lying in the shade, on a blanket a servant helpfully brought, and telling Berenger all about the places he wants to see one day. Berenger describes the different iterations of the Veretian countryside, the coast and the sapphire blue sea extending past the horizon.

“I haven’t been out of Vere much,” he says, “but I think I’d like to go to Patras one day.”

“You’re better off south in Ios,” Ancel says lazily. “They like bold patterns and colors in Patras.”

Berenger pokes him in the side. Ancel tries not to shriek out loud. He’s being unfair: since he allowed Ancel to help him pick out his outfits, and thanks to the new influence from Akielos, Berenger’s wardrobe has expended, even if it stays drab. Ancel hasn’t entirely given up, but he can recognize that they each prefer their own styles and that’s that.

Soon—too soon—it’s time to get back on horseback. They’re slowly making their way down the mountain, on the eastern side. At least the sun isn’t shining in their eyes anymore. Ancel pats his hair, grimacing at finding it so hot under his fingers, and swallows a sound of pain. He hasn’t been this much aware of his own thighs since that night he spent hours riding Berenger in their wide bed in the new Marlas palace.

A fine breeze finally picks up around mid-afternoon, and Ancel begins to relax his tense muscles. Berenger was right: Ruby is more than capable of finding her own footing in the wake of the other horses, and he can enjoy the ride more when he doesn’t have to spend every minute in the fear that she’ll trip somewhere.

It happens then.

Ancel isn’t sure why the snake is still here, why it hasn’t been chased away by the hammering sound of a dozen’s pairs of hooves. It springs out of the large slab of rock on Ancel’s right, crossing the narrow path right under Ruby’s hooves, and disappears in some bushes.

By the time he recognizes the gray lightning bolt for what it truly is, Ancel’s heart is speeding. Ruby isn’t as level-headed: she steps back quickly. The ground is uneven; small rocks crumble and rolls under her hooves. Ancel feels it, all the way to his hands, clenching and pulling at the reins in his surprise. She rears up in answer, once, twice, three times in quick succession. Ancel’s hands scramble at her mane ineffectively, his tired thighs holding him not at all.

The fall is quick and painful. He doesn’t even have time to shout as he falls, though he does let out a yell of pain when his head makes contact with one of white angular rocks littering the path.

He closes his eyes under the impact. When he opens them again, breath knocked out of him, all he can see his Berenger’s face standing out on the perfectly blue sky.

“Are you hurt?” Berenger says. “Don’t move.”

Ancel moves anyway. He sits up, holding out an arm to Berenger, who helps pull him to his feet and keeps him close. His back is hurting, his breath still short.

The hunting party is more or less all circling them, most of them still on their horses.

“Is everything alright?” King Laurent asks, pushing past the others.

Ancel blinks up at him, shiny and blonde on his high horse. His head throbs.

“I—” he says. He tries again. “I think I might need a minute.” Then, remembering who he’s talking to: “Your Majesty.”

He hears more than he feels Berenger’s hand going up to his head, patting the back where the bones struck the ground. He lets out a whelp of pain before he can help himself.

“You’re bleeding,” Berenger says.

His fingertips are coated in red. Not so much that Ancel can feel it gushing, but enough for him to avert his eyes at the sight of it.

“He needs to see a physician,” King Damianos says. “Head injuries can worsen quickly.”

Ancel grips Berenger’s arm a little tighter. The kings call for a break, and everyone unmounts, leading the horses to a patch of shade under a gathering of trees, a little way off.

Ancel readily leaves the reins to a servant, putting distance between Ruby and him as quickly as he can without being too obvious to Berenger.

The physician is brought forward from the retinue that follows them from afar. Ancel’s head is cleaned and inspected.

“Just a cut,” the physician says. “Stay out of the heat and hydrate a lot, but it’s nothing to worry about.”

He’s clearly not the one having to live with his hair matted on his head by blood and sweat. When Ancel brings it up, the physician shakes his head.

“The cut itself is clean. Keep it that way, but you should avoid rubbing at your scalp for the next few days. That includes washing your hair.”

“I can’t wash my hair?” Ancel yelps. “Do you know how hot it is around here?”

“You could reopen the wound and get blood everywhere on these lovely riding leathers,” the old man says.

Ancel doesn’t answer, already mourning his long, luscious strands. The physician steps away after a last bow to the Kings, come to inspect the delay to their hunting trip.

They have to advance: they’re still two days away from Lord Makedon’s estate, where they started the trip.

“You should stay behind,” Berenger says when they talk logistics. “The retinue is almost here, we’ll can ride with them.”

“We?” Ancel asks. “Don’t worry about me. You should ride with the Kings.”

Berenger hesitates. Ancel pushes him toward his horse slightly, a silent show of certainty.

“Are you sure?”

“You can tell me all the juicy details this evening,” Ancel says, playing with the laces that close Berenger’s jacket. “Who caught the first game. Who threw the first spear.”

“Hunting bores you, doesn’t it.”

“It’s so _dreadful_ ,” Ancel moans.

Berenger smiles. Ancel suspects he’s not too fond of hunting either, but he does love riding, and this trip is a perfect opportunity to practice and show off his riding skills. It was perhaps fated that Ancel would fall behind; he’s been making regular progress, but it’s not enough to compete with soldiers and people who’ve been placed on horseback before they could even walk.

Berenger kisses him, long and sweet, before the hunting party gets back on horseback and leaves Ancel behind to the hands of the servants and the old physician.

“Your horse, sir,” a valet says to his left, startling him out of his contemplation.

The riders have already disappeared behind a turn of the mountain. Ancel turns his head, looks at Ruby, the gentle movement of her tail against the flies, the height of the saddle.

“No,” he says at the same time the physician, whose name Ancel can’t remember despite all his efforts, says: “I would advise against it.”

“Riding in the cart would be much better for your head,” he adds. “Just for today.”

Ancel doesn’t argue. He can’t quite look at Ruby. He’s come to appreciate her over the months, but he’s never fallen as badly before. The thought of going back up in the saddle is daunting.

At least the cart is covered. Ancel sits on a bolt of fabric, probably a folded tent or some kind of rug, leans against one of the posts and lets the bumps of the roads rattle his bones.

It’s supremely uncomfortable: it almost makes him miss the smooth leather of his saddle. He closes his eyes and a flash of memory from his fall plays on the backdrop of his eyelids; suddenly the cart is too small inside. He pushes away one of the squares of cloth covering the wooden structure. Fresh air brushes his face. Much better.

They stop around dinner time to set up camp. A rider is sent ahead to the hunting party to signal them; by the time the sound of hooves announces their arrival, almost making the ground shake with it, everything is in order.

Ancel sits on a rock over the camp and watches everything detachedly. He’s forgotten what it feels like to be on the other side of the doors, the hustle and bustle backstage. The realization isn’t as bitter as it could have been a year ago: it’s doubtful he will ever go back to a life of simplicity and anonymity. As long as Berenger and Ancel have each other—and Ancel is ready to make it into a lifelong commitment—he won’t ever have to feel as lonely as he did before his life turned over a new leaf.

Rags to riches story are always held as marvelous and inspiring, but no one talks about the loneliness of struggling to drag yourself over the social ladder by your own strength.

Berenger is right behind the kings when the hunting party finally arrives. He unmounts in one smooth, practiced movement. Ancel watches as he pats his sweating horse, loosens the saddle straps, and gives the reins to a stable boy.

He only looks up when the dappled gray mare is led away with the other horses, in a hastily erected paddock.

Ancel waves at him and sits forward, elbows on his knees, watching Berenger figure out the best path to climb up to his perch.

“Did you travel comfortably?” he asks, lowering himself next to Ancel.

“Not really.” Ancel makes a face. “Still better than riding with you.”

“We almost caught a boar,” Berenger says, “but the Kings made a game out of it and we lost it.”

“Doesn’t seem to bother them too much,” Ancel remarks.

Down in the clearing, the Kings are standing close to each other, still in their riding leathers. King Damianos is holding the flap of their tent over King Laurent’s head, turned back toward him. As Ancel watches, King Laurent let out a laugh that throws his head back a little. The golden circlet in his hair catches the sun, sparkling just out of reach of eyesight.

“I don’t think catching the animal was the point,” Berenger says.

Ancel hums his answer, letting the conversation slip away comfortably. He looks around him, picking a long blade of grass on his left, and sticks it taut between his thumbs and forefingers.

“Look at that,” he says.

Joining his fingers behind the blade, he brings the blade close to his mouth, then blows hard in the space between his fingers. To his delight, a strident whistling sound comes out; one of the horses lifts its head up, searching for the cause of the disruption.

Berenger cocks an eyebrow. “How do you do that?”

Ancel cuts another blade with a perfectly manicured nail, gives it to Berenger. “I learned that as a child,” he says, directing Berenger’s fingers. “Pull it tauter—yes, like that.”

Berenger blows. The blade isn’t perfectly placed; the noise it makes is close to an ungodly shriek. Ancel can’t help the surprised laugh the sound startles out of him.

 “You’ll get it,” he says, discarding his own blade. He gets up, brushes the dirt off his pants.

“I need practice,” Berenger says, taking his arm to start the uneven descent down to the clearing.

“You can’t be good at everything,” Ancel says.

He leans heavily on Berenger’s arm for the last part, his footing uncertain on the stones. He needs to eat, probably; the world is starting to feel a little wobbly. It’s still manageable, though; he has no problem joining the eating circle for dinner. He leans against Berenger and doesn’t say much, resisting the pull of sleep.

Warmth in the evening is much more tolerable. Sitting there on a padded cushion, it’s almost comfortable. Maybe he can come back with Berenger another time, stay inside during the day, like civilized people do. It’s all that outside activity that’s the problem; if they want to sweat, Ancel knows a hundred and one ways to do that inside, and most of them take place on a softer surface than the ground.

Yes, he decides as he picks at his dinner, waiting to retire to their tent for the night, now he has something to look forward to after this dreadful hunting expedition. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr: @[lordberenger](https://lordberenger.tumblr.com/post/176060642618/rush).


End file.
